


Shameless

by bloodandcream



Series: Ship all the Ships [110]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Gore, Character Death, Demon Dean, Demon True Forms, Face-Fucking, M/M, demon murder buddies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 02:59:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6312652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodandcream/pseuds/bloodandcream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ah, there’s that handsome devil, who gave Dean the supernatural equivalent of a Biblical STD. He’s grown his beard out, hair longer too. Looks good on him. Dean would swagger across the bar, but see, there’s piles of bodies strewn everywhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shameless

The king of Hell hisses like a broken fucking radiator when Dean slices a neat, shallow cut along his neck with the first blade. Red smoke seeps from the wound, swirling in the air, practically dripping to pool at their feet. But it’s got no where to go, devils trap below and devils trap above. There’s a bullet in Crowley’s head too, cause the best bindings Dean had on hand was rope so that’ll have to do to hold him.

It’s more than a fair fight like this though.

The mark burns on his forearm, a living fucking thing he can feel in his pulse. Crowley sputters, blood bubbling from his mouth and his cheeks bright red, forehead slick with sweat. Dean cut his tongue out. Had enough of the ‘I made you what you are’ and ‘you owe me’ and ‘how dare you’.

What a goddam crock of shit.

Taking a deep breath, Dean savors the moment. Copper heady scent of blood thick in the warm air of the bar, one hand fisted in Crowley’s thin lank hair, the king thrashing under his hand as much as he can. Cause there’s fear in his red eyes. Real, vivid, fear.

Of Dean.

Of what he is.

Oh, Crowley did make him in to this. But this isn’t what Crowley was trying to make.

Sliding the first blade across his neck deeper, it cuts so smooth through flesh. Nothing as jagged and thick as an ass’ jaw should even be able to cut through butter neat like that. It sinks in, like it wants to be there, even cuts through the spine easy peasy. Dean hacks and saws at Crowley’s neck, pulls his head back by the hair, snarls viciously at him. Cuts deeper and rougher, for all the years of manipulation, all the lies, all times the smug bastard has slipped through the cracks, has hurt his brother and his loved ones.

It feels so fucking good when Crowley’s head separates from his body and Dean can hold it high like a prize. Red smoke cloying and sour swirling around them, pooling on the floor before pulsing with crackling bright light. The floor heaves, cracking as it’s burnt with immolating power that has no release. Broken radiator, gonna blow. The power rocks Dean on his feet as it sears through the floor, but he’s steady. Throwing Crowley’s head away from him in disgust, he turns on his heels and holds his up arms.

Like, hey, look what I did Dad are you proud of me.

Across the bar from him Cain sits on a stool and sips a drink, amber, neat. With Dean’s eyes turned to black, and he’s getting a hang of that trick pretty quick, what he sees is what Cain really is. Not the reclusive bee-keeper. But a Knight of Hell, the Father of Murder. He is what Dean will become.

Ancient and vast, his demonic presence spreads around him like shadows, pulsing with a deep current of power that hums in the air and tingles along Dean’s skin. His eyes are inky and absorb in the light around them. Horns curl from his forehead, curving back along his skull and twisting into gnarled massive things. Teeth sharp and lined in rows all the way to the back of his mouth shine in a gaping maw, insatiable, predatory. Skin that’s mottled and cracked like it’s diseased, hands tipped in thick claws. His true form seeps malice and cruelty, turned bitter through the ages, something sharp and sour and all consuming.

Dean blinks his eyes back to normal.

Ah, there’s that handsome devil, who gave Dean the supernatural equivalent of a Biblical STD. He’s grown his beard out, hair longer too. Looks good on him.

Dean would swagger across the bar, but see, there’s piles of bodies strewn everywhere. Most of them were demons. Probably not all, but it’s kind of hard to keep track when he’s got the blade in his hand, when it’s crushing his mind and his vision’s gone black. The one he really wanted was Crowley, the others just got caught up in it.

Nah. That’s a lie.

It was fun.

Stepping over and around dead bodies, viscera and blood strewn so thick on the floor it sloshes up over the toes of his boots, Dean makes his way next to Cain and leans against the bar. Reaches out, takes the demon’s glass and tips it back. Yeah, whiskey. Good choice.

Cain arches one eyebrow at him, cold blue eyes hard, lips pressed thin.

“Hey, glad you could make it to the party old man.”

Cain stands off his stool, looming over Dean’s casual slouch. “Give me the blade, Dean.”

Huh, Dean didn’t realize he was still holding it. Clenched in his right hand. Slick with blood, starting to turn tacky against his palm. He moves to had it over to Cain, only, he doesn’t. His hand raises, shakes a little, can’t seem to uncurl his fingers. His arm is still on fire, the rage a dense pit in his stomach, still vibrating in his teeth. Yeah. See, there’s still someone else alive in this dim dirty bar, so he’s not really done with the blade.

Dean raises his arm a fraction of an inch and suddenly invisible power is slamming in to him like a fucking sledgehammer, lifting him off his feet and Dean’s flying across the bar. When he hits the wall, he doesn’t topple, stays pinned there like a dart board. Force crushing the air from his lungs, but he doesn’t need to breathe, and maybe it cracks a few ribs but he doesn’t need those either.

Now, Cain, he’s got the swagger down despite the bodies in the way and maybe he just has more practice than Dean. Grunting, Dean can’t even manage to curl his fingers or wiggle his nose under the hold of Cain’s power. Stepping in front of him, calmly prying the blade from his hand, Cain takes it back to the bar and gets a dish towel to wipe it down. Tucks it in his coat. Folds that over a chair.

“Gonna just leave me hanging?”

Dean asks. And he definitely doesn’t sound whiny.

Cain looks back at him. “Why did you call me here?”

Dean would shrug, but the hold on him is still too strong. “You seem like a fun guy to party with.”

Stalking back over to him, Dean feels the mark respond to Cain, flaring hot and jarring down to the bone. “Are you capable of being serious or am I wasting my time?”

“Figured you might teach me a trick or two.”

“Oh?”

“C’mon, Crowley doesn’t know shit about the mark on my arm, and let’s face it, he was a dick. I just uh, I like having hunting company, what can I say.”

“You want my company?”

“You should totally teach me the Sith mind choke thing, too.”

Dean would wink if he could move his eyelids because that was definitely a kinky joke and he’s just goddam hilarious, pinned to the wall, newly minted demon, and he knows he’s got power but he doesn’t know how to use it.

The force holding him up relents and Dean drops to his knees. Pushing up, palms coated in blood, he grins. Dean’s so fucking keyed up from the violence he can’t stand still, shifts from one foot to the other. He might still be a little drunk, who knows, it takes so goddam much for him to get a buzz anymore, he’s probably just riding the adrenaline high. There’s an ache in his muscles from use, the good kind, and he’s so fucking hard in his jeans. It’s kind of ridiculous, how the mark seems to hone in on every bad intention and every dirty idea that Dean has. There’s a lot of them. He craves violence and sin, hungers for depravity.

Cain is almost toe to toe with him, and he’s gotta feel this too right, feel how there’s a palpable charge to the air coils pulls tighter and tighter the closer they get, feel this white hot burn in the bones. When Cain grips his chin, holds him and glares, Dean’s not sure what’s going on.

“I’m not sure if you’re capable of following directions.”

“Huh?” Dean can’t think of much, the twitch in his fingers wanting the blade back. Wanting to rip with his bare hands and tear with his teeth.

“If you want to learn a thing or two from me, boy, you’ll have to listen.”

“Yeah, I can do that.”

The force of Cain’s power hits him again, wraps around him to press at the backs of his knees and the tops of his shoulder, pushes him down. The floor is wet and hard under his knees but Dean’s mouth is watering and he has to touch, has to clutch at Cain’s thigh with the hand of the arm that bears the mark because there’s this connection between them and he has to.

It’s like a live fucking current that passes between them, through cloth and skin, deep down into his core. For some reason it doesn’t seem to affect Cain, but nothing really does, always with that stern face, quietly cruel. Dean flicks his eyes to black, sees the eddies and ripples of Cain’s presence surging around them and his feels his cock jerk in his jeans. Shit.

Leaning forward, Dean puts his other hand on the waist of Cain’s pants but he’s rocked back with a ripple of power.

“Did I tell you that you could do that?”

“No.”

“Then you’re not listening very well, are you?”

“Fuck, what do you want.”

Dean’s on his knees, salivating, the smell of slaughter and sulphur around them a taste on the back of his tongue and his knuckles still ache from breaking bones.

“For you to stay still, and take exactly what I give you.”

The lingering pressure of power wrapped around him abates, and Dean sways as he’s left to support himself. But he holds still. Fingers curling and uncurling, whole body tense and hyper focused. Cain clasps one hand on top of Dean’s where it still rests on his thigh. Skin to skin, burning hot, there are embers between them Dean can see with his black eyes and something crackles along the veins of his hand sinking under his shirt. Lava in his blood. Poison in his soul.

The sound of a button and zipper snap his head around, Cain pulling his dick out and Dean blinks his eyes to green because he wants to watch it like this. Broad hand sliding over the length, foreskin pulling around the head. Dean’s heart still beats like a heavy bass line against his ribs even though he doesn’t need air, doesn’t need a pulse, still his breath quickens and he’s light headed.

“Open your mouth.” 

Spit trickles down his chin when he listens. See. He can. He can take directions, if they’re the kind of directions he wants to take. Crowley tried to leash him - mostly figuratively, sometimes literally - and when it was convenient or necessary for Dean well then he could go along. But when he’s got his pieces on the board where he wants he’d rather chop off a head.

He can do this. Dean’s gotta admit, he’s curious. There are a lot of reasons he summoned Cain here before he started the slaughter. For fun. Maybe to show off. Back up was an option too; turns out Dean didn’t need it. But there’s power and knowledge in Cain, things Dean cannot fathom. There’s something that calls to him, maybe it’s just the mark, maybe he’ll find out if this goes anywhere.

Dean’s straining not to lean forward and take that cock in his mouth. Cain runs a calloused thumb along his lower lip, murmurs “Good boy,” and rubs the cock head along Dean’s parted lips.

He doesn’t move. Clenches his fingers in Cain’s pants, his other hand fallen on to his thigh. Dean’s an active kind of partner, a giver, it’s a test of will to stay so fucking still but with his tongue folded over his teeth and hanging out, the hot press of skin shallowly, slowly, sliding in - it makes him shiver with pent up energy.

Maybe if he’s good Cain’ll fuck that out of him.

Shit, it’s like there’s some kind of withdrawal post mark-murder and he’s itching under his skin, jittering. Cain sinks in, one hand spanned across his jaw, pushes into Dean’s throat and Dean barely gags. Eyes starting to prickle, he looks up at Cain and resists the urge to swallow, to lick, to suck. Instead, spit trickles messily down his chin from the corners of his mouth. Not like his shirt isn’t ruined already, plastered to his body with blood.

Taking his hand off Dean’s, Cain grips his head and starts fucking his face brutally. Wet loud squelch of it the only noise, Dean really learning that he doesn’t need to breathe and it’s ok, everything else is the buzzing thrum in his ears that’s been undercutting the world for a while now. It gets a little quieter, gets a little calmer, as Dean sinks into complacency. Muscle tension easing, eyes fluttering shut, the violence burning in his blood simmering down. Slumping in the hold of Cain’s hands cradling his skull, jaw slack, the sharp taste of blood is still on his tongue but it grows bitter, bitter.

Head pulled forward, pressed into the warmth of skin and the folds of Cain’s shirt, Dean swallows reflexively when his throat is flooded with come.

Humming dazedly as Cain pulls out, tucks himself back in, Dean’s still on his knees. Swiping the back of a hand across his chin, he grins. “So, what’s the score, teach?”

Cain rolls his eyes upward and purses his lips.

Dean’s cock is pressing a hard, insistent line against the inseam of his jeans. Closing a hand over it, he squeezes. “Gonna help me out here?”

A rough hand yanks his head back, Cain frowning at him. “Are you sure you want me to?”

“Fuck yeah,” Dean groans.

Moving his hand to unbutton his jeans, the hard rubber sole of Cain’s boot presses against him. Grunting, Dean pulls his hand out from under Cain’s boot, raw skin scraping. He shakes it and scowls up at Cain. Who presses his foot harder against Dean’s lap. Drags down to shove the heel right at the head of his cock. Shit. Bucking up into the contact and squirming, it’s hard enough to hurt but it’s also fucking great.

Hand still in his hair, Cain grins, “You can move.”

Clasping one hand against the back of Cain’s leg, Dean grips on for leverage and fucks his hips up against the rough pressure. Curling forward, jeans stiff with dried blood, Dean humps Cain’s boot like a fucking dog and creams himself.

Shit, that should be embarrassing, but honestly, Dean doesn’t seem to possess the ability to feel shame anymore.

It’s kind of nice.

Cain steps back, leaving him to laugh at the fucking mess his life is. Dean eventually picks himself up, pushes a hand through his sweaty hair before realizing he’s only gonna get it messier. Cain’s across the bar, slipping his coat back on, and Dean feels a tug towards the blade. Before Cain turns to the door, Dean swipes a bottle of whiskey. He trails after, out into the cool night air, skin prickling and fuck he needs a shower.

Instead he unscrews the cap and takes a swig. “Where to now?”

Cain narrows his eyes at Dean, hand moving to rest over the blade through his coat. “I have some loose ends to tie up.”


End file.
